


Speranza

by Grinner_H



Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9670529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grinner_H/pseuds/Grinner_H
Summary: Sixteen drabbles.





	1. The Damned

**[asphyxiate]**

 

This is not a love story. 

What it _is,_ is _tunnel vision._

You never knew it could be like this - the rest of the world blurring and fading out, melting away till there's nothing but the hazel spark of his eyes and your black, black heart; a beacon illuminating the darkness. 

But it's _always_ inevitably like this. 

His back against a dull gray wall. 

Your fingers tight around the heated flesh of his neck, palm pressing against the mound of his Adam's apple. 

His pulse is a rapid butterfly sting beneath your touch. His eyes are bright like thunder and frost. Your name is nothing but a mockery on his lips. 

_"Yoh."_

He snarls, gasps, growls it in this air that's tight like piano wire. His fingers tangle their way into your tie, tugging on you like a leash. And every bit of him screams, _Choke me harder._

And there is _this._

Your knee between his thighs. 

His kiss like a loaded gun, mouth and eyes and heart wide open. 

He tastes like ash and gun smoke. 

He smells like madness and pride. 

And you can't resist each kiss that steals your breath away.

 

**[smolder]**

 

There's something to be said about his eyes.

Rich, warm hazel that burns brighter than a Vegas neon sign, darkens to earth-brown when he's looking up at you like this; fingers braced upon the jut of your hipbones, mouth wet and tight around your cock. 

You can't tear your gaze from his, not even when those eyes discompose you as much as fascinate you. 

He looks at you like lying is pointless. He looks at you like that's all he needs to lay you bare.

His lips slide off you with this vulgar popping sound, his tongue trails liquid fire from your balls to your tip. 

Then, there's the weight of his body upon yours, the fervidity of his grin against your lips. "Like how you taste on me," he says, and it's as much a question as it is a statement of fact. 

There's something about the way he - clothed in nothing but his sweat-painted skin - could kill you in thirty different ways right now. Naked, but not unarmed. _Never_ unarmed. 

"Akihito," you say, and his name isn't much of an answer, even though it _is._

Then it's teeth on your pulse point and his knees on either side of your hips. It's _fuck_ and _please_ and loud, loud silence. 

You let him take you apart like he's the only one who can make you whole.

 

**[fusion]**

 

Somedays, you roll around like dogs in the dirt. 

There's mud in your hair, on your face, on your suit. Tangled feet and crushing grips and his furious, gnashing teeth. You bare your neck. He claims your stupidly bold offering, modesty be damned. 

His are fingers entwined with your own, pinning you against the earth. There is too much heat radiating off his limber frame. He is the fire of Hell itself. 

And _you?_

You are nothing but the damned.

You were condemned the moment you laid eyes on him and felt that insatiable, violent rush of _want._

Akihito pushes his tongue into your mouth like he's trying to choke you with it. His body is an untamed thing; so heavy upon you as if he's trying to weave himself into the fabric of your skin, tattoo himself upon the marrow of your bones. He draws breath from your lungs. You let him.

And you think, _There is no better death than this._

 

**[hush]**

 

In your world, peace is a fugacious thing.

Sometimes, you're lucky enough to find it. In moments like this one, sharing cigarettes and loaded silence among the dead. 

Akihito is bathed in sweat and crimson, teeth bared in a mad, mad grin. He sits on a corpse. Ashes his cigarette in a puddle of blood. His breaths are quiet. His mouth says nothing. His gaze upon you has never been so bright, so scorching, so full of hunger and fucking _meaning._

He has never looked more beautiful.

You rest your tired back against the wall. Let yourself slide to the floor, gradual and deliberate, never tearing your gaze from his. Cigarette smoke fills your lungs like redemption. And you think, _Consume me._

Akihito's widening grin is a threat and a promise.


	2. The Broken

**[child]**

 

They make a pretty ordinary picture. 

Just two kids on a high school rooftop. Empty Coke cans and smoke from an unfiltered cigarette; rising, curling, dissipating like a wish. 

Tobirama's leaning against the chainlink fence that girds the ledge of the roof. In his hand, a worn copy of _The Swimming-Pool Library_ \- something he'd borrowed from… _a family friend._ The novel lies open in his grip. He's been staring at the same line for thirteen minutes now. His mind is on everything but the promiscuity of Will Beckwith.

A ball of paper hits him square in the forehead. He doesn't have to uncrumple it to know that it's a page torn out of his History book. He offers no reaction. Turns a page. Doesn't read a word. 

"I'm so fucking _bored._ " The gratingly childish whine is evident in Izuna's voice. "Buy me lunch."

Tobirama supposes his best friend should have said something like, _"Entertain me"_ or, _"Let's fuck shit up."_ But nothing's ever quite so straightforward with Izuna. 

"Hey," Izuna says, scuffing Tobirama's shoe with his own. "I'm really fucking bored."

Tobirama ignores him. 

 

**[infiltrate]**

 

Izuna -

Jumps on Tobirama at random moments and obnoxiously demands piggyback rides. Has no compunction in taking advantage of his best friend's trust fund. Is _always_ hungry. Knows every lyric to _In Love and Death._ Does a mean Travis Bickle impression. Steals Tobirama's favorite vinyls _all the fucking time._ Isn't above guilt trips. Owns _way_ too many Nightwish t-shirts. Thinks that _Call of Duty_ is _culture._ Lives on Mounds. Lives _for_ Mounds. Never, _ever_ knocks.

Life with Uchiha Izuna is beautiful fucking _chaos,_ and Tobirama relishes every fucking second of it.

 

**[shatter]**

 

Somedays, it hurts to look at him.

Tobirama really hates these kinds of days. 

Hates the way Izuna looks - posture rigid, lips curved upward in a tight, fake smile. Hates the forced ebullience in his voice, envy and want and sheer fucking _hurt_ evident in the deep dark of his eyes. 

Hates that Izuna looks at Mito the way she only ever looks at Hashirama.

Days like this, Tobirama wants so much to tell Izuna, _Don't look at her. Don't pine for something you'll never have. Don't **need** someone who never sees **you.**_

But he's never been any good at this. These saccharine emotions. This… _mushy love stuff._

So he watches this charade from the sidelines, stoically saying nothing. Watches _Izuna_ \- forlornly watching Mito walk away.

Tobirama resents it, this crushing weight of helplessness. So he grabs Izuna's arm and hauls him into the privacy of a dimly lit supply closet. 

And - for the first time in twelve years - Tobirama silently watches Izuna cry.

 

**[homesick]**

 

Tobirama doesn't _do_ goodbyes, not even when he's sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Izuna pack.

He tries not to think too much about it. About the life that Izuna would lead in Washington State. About the life that Izuna's leaving behind.

Tries not to think about his _own_ future - London and the family business and the entire fucking _world_ that would be keeping them apart.

 _Four years,_ Tobirama thinks, observing Izuna meticulously folding his Ocean Soul t-shirt before reverently placing it in his suitcase. _It already feels like fucking forever._

He's _glad_ for Izuna. Really. 

Izuna hadn't been born with the privileges Tobirama and his brothers were so accustomed to. He'd fucking _earned_ this - his football scholarship, one step closer to realizing his childhood dream.

They've known each other for almost all their lives. And Tobirama's so fucking proud, so fucking _relieved_ that Izuna's got this chance to just leave everything where it is. 

His past, his pain, fucking _Mito,_ fucking _everything_ he'd busted his ass for just so he could get to this point.

Tobirama's always been the one to _see_ Izuna - _really_ see him. And he _wants_ this for him, almost as much as Izuna most assuredly wants this for himself.

Tobirama _wants_ it, is _glad_ for it, doesn't fucking understand why it's so fucking hard to goddamn _breathe._

 _Four fucking years._

Tobirama watches Izuna click his suitcase shut, doesn't say goodbye, doesn't say that he might miss him.


	3. The Craved

**[overwhelm]**

 

They're watching _The Zero Theorem._

It's the kinda movie that Momohara never gets, the kind she's only watching 'cause Takaba had enthusiastically talked her into it. 

It's a jumble of incomprehensible words, a dizzying, swirling mess of color in a darkened theater. Momohara wants so much to shut her ears and eyes against it all. 

But then, there's Bainsley. 

Beautiful, confident, _charming_ Bainsley. The epitome of _sex_ in her hot pink heels, her white lace stockings, that nurse uniform that clings to her curves in all the best ways. 

And beside her, the sound of Aoki's hitched breath.

Momohara doesn't have to ask to know that Aoki's picturing _her_ dressed just like that.

And Momohara leans a little closer, laces their fingers, decides she'd really rather watch Aoki instead.

 

**[linger]**

 

The first time it happens, Momohara is too nervous, too fucking excited, too fucking _terrified_ that she'd fuck this all up.

But, "Relax," Azumi commands, one elegant hand against her shoulder, gently pushing Momohara till she's pressed against the headboard.

And, "Just let go," Aoki says, standing by the foot of the bed. She remains fully clothed. Her cellphone is steady in her hand, recording.

Momohara meets her gaze, holds it determinedly. Doesn't waver, even when Azumi litters Momohara's creamy skin with teasing butterfly kisses. Even when her expert fingers sensuously caress Momohara from her breast to her hip. 

She watches the part of Aoki's mouth, the heave of her chest, the tremble of her fingers around the phone. The halo of her golden hair, and the fire in her sea blue eyes that makes Momohara want and _want._

And then, it's Azumi's face between her thighs. Her tongue that's a wicked, wicked thing against her soft clit.

Momohara arches with a loud cry, doesn't look away.

 

**[bind]**

 

They're this mesmerizing thing; three bodies in a bed, cloaked in sweat and the haze of lust.

Momohara's got Aoki pinned beneath her, tongue tracing the beauty mark on Aoki's lower lip, fingers diving into warm, wet heat.

And behind her, Azumi. 

Azumi who's curved over Momohara's back, decorating the graceful line of her shoulders with kisses and teasing nips. Her fingers dance along the curve of Momohara's breasts, over her flanks, down, down, down till a lone finger slips between her legs, comes off wet.

Momohara gasps, presses a hungry kiss to Aoki's lips. Rocks back into Azumi, craving her touch. It's this maddening _push-pull_ of desire and need, somewhere between _on the brink_ and _just take it, don't fucking leave it._

She feels Azumi's seductive chuckle against her spine. And then, a too-hot mouth, trailing downward. 

Hands upon her ass, spreading her open. And Azumi's tongue, sliding in.

Momohara's hips buck violently, fingers thrusting hard into Aoki's slick cunt.

And Aoki's hand is a firm grip on her nape, pulling her down and drinking Momohara's wanton cry from her lips.

 

**[budget]**

 

It's a modest kind of living, in this apartment that's way too small for three. 

Momohara remembers days she spent here alone, how the rooms felt too vast, the floors too cold, her heart too empty. A life of lonely TV dinners and heartache.

But now. 

She finds herself waking between them, face pressed against the crook of Azumi's neck, Aoki's soft breaths in her hair. Finding comfort in their scents, their warmth.

They still haven't got much of anything, but it's okay. 

Momohara thinks about the women she loves and knows herself content.


	4. The (Un)wanted

**[misunderstanding]**

 

"You love him."

His statement startles you. And you've never been one to be startled - by _him,_ least of all. 

He says it flatly, like it's not supposed to mean anything. He may as well have said, _"Sometimes, the ocean is green"_ or, _"The anthem sounds a lot better when Toryn sings it."_

But it _does_ mean something. He wouldn't have said it otherwise. 

You have always - much to the chagrin of your brothers - been too discerning, and Madara's eyes say far too much, even when his body and his voice are trying to be dishonest.

So you are careful not to look at him. Careful, instead, to keep your eyes focused on the TV screen. On _Izuna,_ deftly catching a pass. Running like a guy who's just broken out of prison. Izuna, who's undoubtedly grinning like the cocky fool that he is beneath that blue helmet, eyes bright like the spark of a gun.

You _know_ him. Know the language of his body. Know his form as well as you know your own. 

_(You don't know him well enough. You never have.)_

"You love him," Madara says again, as if you hadn't heard him the first time, and you utterly _despise_ how nothing in those words sounds like a question. He is not a man who enjoys being ignored. It irks you that you know this too.

"Don't say stupid things," you counter smoothly. It isn't difficult to retain control of your voice, to keep it as blank and undecipherable as Madara's own. Not when you've spent most of your life scorning the ridiculous concept of _love_ and all the honey-sick delusions it engenders.

Madara offers no reply, though you can tell he is displeased with your answer. The weight of his gaze is heavy upon you like a death sentence. 

"Watch the game," you tell him. You don't ask, _How could something so intangible possibly be real?_

You don't love Izuna. 

You simply prefer his company over anyone else's.

 

**[return]**

 

He's in love. 

Her name is Kushina - this attractive slip of a thing who's almost as obnoxious as he is; too exuberant, too damn _alive_ in the back seat of your car. Her eyes are a lively, pretty violet that speak of intelligence and kindness. Her hair is a loud, in-your-face red that undeniably complements her personality.

You wonder if he is reminded of Mito when he looks at her.

You watch them in the rearview mirror. Izuna's arm around her shoulders. The way she leans into him, coaxes easy laughter out of him with her impressive wit and bawdy humor. The way he looks at her - softer than the way he used to look at Mito, hopeless adoration in place of pain.

You're happy for him. _Really._

Never mind that unnameable feeling that churns dark and ugly in your gut. It twists like a knife cutting bone-deep. Heavy. Searing. _Excruciating._ Your jaw clenches painfully. Your fingers are too tight around the steering wheel. Your breath is a choking thing lodged cruelly in your throat.

"Eyes on the road," Madara says from his position beside you. His voice is quiet, a near inaudible thing beneath the sound of Kushina's raucous laughter.

A deep scowl is fleet to inscribe itself upon your face. You _hate_ taking orders from him, even when he's being insufferably _logical._

But it's too fucking hard. 

Watching the way Izuna's eyes crinkle with his smile, fondness and contentment radiating off him. Like he's found his place amid the madness, found someone worth living and dying for.

And - bizarrely, _incomprehensibly_ \- you find that it's impossible to hate _her._ Kushina is too unlike Mito, too much like Izuna himself. They are indisputably compatible.

Izuna catches your gaze in the mirror, lovesick effulgence giving way to concern when he undoubtedly notices the disturbance in your eyes.

_(He has always known you too fucking well.)_

It is hard to look at him, and so much harder to look away.

 

**[electricity]**

 

Later, you would probably pretend this was a mistake.

 _He_ would probably pretend it never happened.

But this is now.

And _right now_ has you shoving him against a brick wall in some filthy alleyway, pressing your mouth to his and inhaling his breath like smoke from a cigarette.

Your hands are a crushing force upon his shoulders. Your knee is an insistent, invading thing between his thighs. 

He is as hard as you are.

If you were a coward, you'd blame this on the shitty beer. But you aren't drunk and you both know it.

What you _are,_ is _ravenous._ This insatiable, rabid thing - forcing him into the wall as if you're trying to weave him into it, kissing him like you're attempting to rob him of his breath; chest to chest, hip to hip, want to need.

And _Madara._ He is - not unlike Izuna - this stubborn, prideful thing.

His kisses are like an attack. Forceful. Aggressive. His countenance speaks of murder and rage. He growls like an animal cornered.

His entire body is strained beneath your punishing grip, and you can see it - the fight in his eyes. That war between denial and disbelief and temptation, poised precariously on the point between _making this impossible_ and _just giving in._

It is an incredibly heady thing - losing control. Losing _yourself_ in this unslakable desire - this _need_ \- to just fucking _take._

So, _"Shut the fuck up,"_ you say against his ear, claim his mouth with your own. 

Madara bucks against you, a fight, a command, a _plea._

You bite his tongue. His blood is sharp, electric. He tastes so much like damnation. And you think him beautiful. 

(You also think, _He isn't Izuna._ )

 

**[respect]**

 

Lately, you have come to appreciate these bouts of silence, these moments of emptiness disguised as peace.

Izuna would have tried to fill it. He would've snuck up on you, jumped on your back, laughed - triumphant and loud - in your ear. Izuna would've talked too much. 

But Madara doesn't speak. He simply stands, out here in the cold with you. His profile is a clean, blank canvas. His posture betrays nothing.

Between your fingers is one of his cigarettes. He had wordlessly offered it to you six minutes ago. You had silently accepted. 

_(Izuna would've said something. He would have offered you Peace instead of Hope.)_

It's a rare thing, this quiet. Between Izuna and your brothers, you are hardly ever afforded a moment's respite. So this is a much welcomed one. 

_(Ignore the hollowness in your gut, your chest. Is this what heartache's supposed to feel like… for those who live without a heart?)_

You watch Madara take a drag of his own cigarette. Watch him exhale, watch his breath mist in the cold air like smoke. 

And you think, _He is so unlike his brother._

_He is so much like **you.**_

That you're realizing this _now_ is a shock, like a sockful of coins to the face, an ice bucket emptied over your head.

Izuna's the one who _knows_ you, but Madara - in all his silent watchfulness, in all the moments you've spent passing each other by - is the one who truly _understands_ you.

You've always thought that you could expertly read him, but maybe he's been reading you too. Maybe he's empty, just as you are.

_(Maybe he's just as lonely.)_

You watch him watching the day go by. Amid all the gray, he stands out - an anomaly, like the fourth leg of a tripod. His face is a carefully constructed mask built from lies. His eyes hold too many truths.

It feels too familiar - this crazy strangeness of it all - and you realize, this was how you felt, back when you were eighteen and stupid and _alone,_ watching Izuna cry in that stuffy supply closet. Watching Izuna _break_ and _letting_ him, because you were too damn broken to fix anything yourself.

You have never been able to forgive yourself for that.

And it makes you realize that you don't want to live what's left of your life with one more regret.

You have _always_ known Izuna. But, in all the years of this aberrant relationship, you know that you don't know Madara at all.

But you _want_ to.

What you want is to reach him, to close this distance that's always existed between you. 

So you do.

_(You take the first step. He meets you halfway.)_


End file.
